


Love Mirrored

by Petri



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Race Changes, And Grantaire may not call him Apollo but he's head over heels, As in Enjolras is the prettiest black man, M/M, POV Character of Color
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:47:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petri/pseuds/Petri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras isn't sure how something as simple as his boyfriend wanting to draw a portrait of him could become quite complicated (except yeah, he mostly is).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Mirrored

The day began with off-white clouds and an unpleasantly cold wind, and four o’clock greeted the university students finished with the week with a blanket of dark grey above their heads and pouring rain.

Enjolras has an umbrella in his messenger bag. He also has three books in one hand and two boxes of Chinese food in the other, and his bag is already so full it’s ready to come apart any moment. He had the foresight to pull the hood of his coat up, but he can’t do anything about his shoes. Even if the rain doesn’t sneak into it, he isn’t looking forward to scrubbing the mud out of the bright red fabric.

At least he’s one of the rich kids with a fancy apartment ten minutes from the university. It’s where Grantaire lives now, too, because the place he used to live in was too small, with crumbling paint and no bathtub and a shitty view of a brick wall in the bedroom.

And sometimes it’s a bit lonely and too quiet, in his big fancy apartment, and it isn’t always easy, living with Grantaire, but Enjolras thinks it’s mostly worth it.

Grantaire isn’t in a talkative mood when Enjolras gets home. He takes the books from Enjolras and puts it down on the coffee table, giving them a curious glance but making no remark out loud.

Enjolras stares at him after he puts his coat onto the radiator to dry, trying to figure his boyfriend out. Asking Grantaire what is wrong always gets a _Nothing, I’m totally fine_ with a painfully fake smile, so Enjolras doesn’t even bother with that.

Grantaire is not good at keeping things to himself (except that he has been in love with Enjolras since their first argument), and Enjolras gives him at most half an hour until he spits it out.

“I want to draw a portrait of you. But only if you permit it, of course.”

Enjolras swallows the tofu in his mouth at that, surprised.

Grantaire smiles at him, unsure and shy. Then he looks down at his plate and starts to move a piece of carrot around, his other hand on the table, fingers moving to a nervous rhythm.

Enjolras knows he should give his boyfriend a quick yes or no, because Grantaire likes to overthink and end up with messed up conclusions built from his own insecurities and issues if he’s left with no clear answer.

But Enjolras feels stuck.

In high school sophomore year his class had to draw portraits, and he was paired up with an awkward white boy Enjolras hardly even knew the name of. They could only use graphite pencils, and the boy told Enjolras that he can’t draw his _too dark_ skin; his nose and mouth would disappear because he isn’t good at shading, so can they pretend Enjolras isn’t _that_ dark? In return, the boy continued, Enjolras is allowed to not draw his acne, because that would be also very difficult to put onto paper, and he smiled smugly, like he was very satisfied with his solution.

Enjolras almost threw his pencil sharpener at him, and was only stopped by the echo of his mother’s voice that _please don’t throw things at white students, for your sake._

But Enjolras refuses to let some stupid white kid from high school get in the way of his boyfriend drawing him.

“Okay.”

Grantaire looks up at him, lips pressed together nervously.

“Really?”

Enjolras smiles and nudges Grantaire’s bare feet with his toes playfully under their table.

“Yeah.”

The tension seeps out of Grantaire with that one word; his shoulders relax, his lips curve up in a real smile, and his eyes are the gentlest thing Enjolras has ever seen.

“Thank you. For trusting me.”

 xxxXxxx

Grantaire spends their meetings with his head buried in his sketchbook in the corner.

The rhythm of their discussions feels a bit off without Grantaire’s comments, but at least they don’t waste their precious time arguing about something completely unnecessary and off-topic.

Enjolras is curious, and as the days go on and Grantaire doesn’t even show him one tiny little half-finished sketch, he starts to become a little impatient, too. But he doesn’t want to force Grantaire to show him something he doesn’t think is ready. Artists can be really weird about their art.

Two weeks after Grantaire asked for his permission they’re curled up on their couch, Grantaire’s head in his lap. Enjolras’ laptop is on the coffee table, his left hand buried in Grantaire’s messy curls, who is reading one of Enjolras’ books. It’s actually a book he borrowed from Marius about endangered languages, how colonialism and cultural assimilation and oppressive language laws affect them. A lot of it was completely new to Enjolras, which is really sad. Inequality really is everywhere.

“Are you busy?”

Enjolras glances away from his laptop and Grantaire tilts his head to look at him, eyebrows raised.

“Not really.” Enjolras shrugs, gently scraping his nails against Grantaire’s scalp. Grantaire shivers with his whole body, his toes curling against the armrest. Enjolras grins smugly.

“You’re not in the middle of an argument with some straight white person?”

“No, actually, I stepped back. Now I’m just following the argument.”

“You stepped back?” Grantaire presses his palm to his heart in mock-surprise. “Are you sure you’re not sick?”

“Very funny.” Enjolras laughs dryly. “It’s about discrimination against transgender people. I was the one who called the guy out first, but then a transwoman joined in and I thought there was no need for me to talk over her.”

Grantaire hums. His fingertips absent-mindedly run over a table of statistics where the book is open.

“I can’t draw you. I’m sorry. I tried, but I just can’t.”

He sounds guilty and very upset at himself.

Enjolras stares at his keyboard.

There’s a vague sense of disappointment lodged somewhere in his chest.

“It was like trying to photograph the sun.”

Which… is a really weird simile?

Enjolras frowns, the unpleasant feeling shifting into something else he can’t decipher right now. Grantaire continues, his voice barely a whisper.

“You’re a very dynamic person. You’re like a whirlwind, a wildfire, always rushing forward and dragging people along whether they want it or not – but they do want to go with you, because you can convince them, you could convince them to die with you, I’m sure you could. And you just… you have all this impatient energy trapped inside your body, and that can’t be put onto paper. I watch you at the meetings, and you’re always moving, walking from one end of the room to the other, like some angry god. And you’re just so… good. Even though you can be really terrible, too, but it’s always for a greater good. Your favorite mug, you know, the one with _Fuck the kyriarchy_? You could have bought one with _Fuck white supremacy_ or _Fuck heteronormativity_ , but you didn’t, because you care about everything, not just about the stuff that personally affects you. And I just… I’m not a good enough artist, Enjolras. I’m not enough as a person, you know? Because… you believe in all that stuff, and I… I don’t, and how can I draw you without understanding it… understanding you?”

Enjolras is at a loss for words.

He’s had white women randomly walk up to him in the library and ask him out and when he told them no, they looked hurt and tried to make him feel guilty for not giving them a chance. Women who probably had to deal with Nice Guys accusing them of friendzoning and calling them misogynistic slurs for daring to say no. He’s had white men in that gay club ask him about the size of his dick and _dude there’s no way you’re a virgin_ and _aren’t you a bit too girly for being black?_ and it’s really ridiculous that he felt so uncomfortable in a gay club. Damn intersectionality.

And then Grantaire says all that, and it’s not some dumb white guilt. It’s that Grantaire doesn’t think himself good enough because of his cynicism, because he can’t believe that the world can truly be made a better place.

They’ve already had arguments that lasted for hours and made their voice rise with anger and shake with frustration. Enjolras refused to agree with anything but that every person would be willing to overcome the prejudices society has taught them if they are educated, and Grantaire told them that people are selfish and cruel and they don’t want to be 'educated' (he even used air quotes, the bastard) if it’s not convenient for them.

“Have you tried drawing me outside the meetings?”

Grantaire stiffens, and his eyes are very big and very blue as he stares up at Enjolras.

“Come on, we live together, R. When I’m too sleepy to pull the blankets up and you have to do it for me, or when I’m sitting at three o’clock in the kitchen in my pajamas, peeling an orange, or when I’m brushing my teeth or shaving, or when I just had an orgasm, do you think I’m still some kind of, what was your word? Angry god at those moments?”

“I haven’t thought about that,” Grantaire says, his voice full of wonder.

“Am I only worthy to draw while I’m talking about destroying the oppressive power structures?”

He’s apparently dating a white guy who only cares about him when he’s fighting for social justice.

“Of course not! I just wasn’t sure I’m allowed, alright? You don’t open up easily and I thought you would get mad if I drew you in a, um, domestic setting.”

Oh.

“I wouldn’t be mad at you.”

Grantaire smiles his big smile, with his crooked teeth. Grantaire is self-conscious about them – like about too many other things –, and he only ever smiles and laughs to show his teeth when he’s with his friends. Enjolras thinks it’s cute, and beauty standards can go fuck themselves, anyway.

“Can I draw you right now?”

Enjolras grins.

Laptop closed – he will check tomorrow what happened with the argument – and book put away, Grantaire finds his sketchbook and a graphite pencil.

“I’m doing the colors later. I was thinking about red for the background, but I’ll try not to make it look too much like blood.”

Enjolras’ hair stays down – apparently his boyfriend associates the high ponytail with meetings and fighting for equality –, and his reading glasses stay on, because they make him look cuter and less serious, according to Grantaire.

Enjolras isn’t sure how much he can move or speak. Grantaire was right; he is very dynamic, even at home, and staying mostly still is getting more and more difficult.

His boyfriend must have noticed, because right when Enjolras feels like he really can’t do this anymore Grantaire puts the pencil behind his ear and slaps the sketchbook down the coffee table.

“You want to eat something?”

Enjolras munches on his vanilla croissant as he watches Grantaire search for something in his worn dark green bag. Grantaire has his back to Enjolras, but he can still see the too familiar flash of white metal.

It took Grantaire a while to believe that Enjolras doesn’t mind his stuff in his apartment. But now he has his black leather jacket hanging next to Enjolras’ coats, and the cupboard is full of gumdrops and taffies and marshmallow candies (one of the few similarities between them is that they both have a terrible sweet tooth) and Grantaire leaves his books everywhere; _Greco-Roman Philosophy III_ on the edge of the bathtub, _Introduction into Color Theory_ under Enjolras’ pillow.

But he keeps his flasks in his bag.

He doesn’t drink now, though. There’s a moment of hesitation, and then the flask sinks back into the depths of his bag.

Enjolras wipes his lips with the back of his hand as he goes back to the couch. He moves to kiss Grantaire before he sits down, though.

Enjolras isn’t sure if it’s going to be a quick peck or something deeper, but after a moment Grantaire opens his mouth for him and that is answer enough.

Grantaire always kisses him like he can’t believe it’s actually happening, which was a bit annoying but also kind of flattering at first, but now Enjolras is used to it and simply files it under ‘Little things about Grantaire’.

He’s passion and desperation mixed with indescribable care and gentleness. Enjolras pushes a hand into his curls, knocks the pencil behind his ear to the floor, but neither of them cares.

Grantaire’s hand is cold on the small of his back, but Enjolras is used to that, too. The first time Grantaire touched his stomach Enjolras involuntarily flinched at it. Grantaire looked at him like he expected Enjolras to break up with him right there and then just for his cold hand, and it took Enjolras five minutes to kiss and caress the look of dread off his face.

Kissing is really great, but sometimes the way Grantaire’s eyes go all soft and warm and pretty is even better. And sometimes Enjolras get frustrated that his silver tongue can’t find the words to adequately describe how his boyfriend looks at him.

He actually isn’t that irritated anymore by Marius and Cosette and their hopeless inability to keep the hearts out of their eyes every time they glance at each other, and it perhaps has to do with the giddy warmth Grantaire’s love-struck gaze sends through his body.

The drawing continues in silence, and it’s surprisingly cozy and nice in a way Enjolras isn’t used to. Grantaire is right; he’s always rushing and moving and doing everything he can and then more. Even when he goes with Combeferre and Courfeyrec to their ‘friend dates’, as Courfeyrac calls them, they inevitably always end up talking about some social issue. He waits for every house party to end with an untouched cocktail in his hand, discussing human rights topics with whoever doesn’t feel like dancing that night. That time they all went to the beach in Côte d'Azur he swam out of a game of volleyball in the shallows to talk about intersectionality in feminism with Éponine and Musichetta.

He argues sometimes so bitterly with Grantaire he isn’t sure how they haven’t fallen apart yet, and more often than not he doesn’t even know how these arguments start.

If there was an illness with the symptom of ‘incapable of having unclouded fun’ it would be named after him.

But spending this Friday night in his apartment with his boyfriend drawing him feels actually quite sweet.

xxxXxxx

Enjolras goes to sleep after midnight, and Grantaire stays in the living room with his sketchbook. Enjolras feels a pleasantly nervous buzz that keeps him awake for a bit before he finally falls asleep with Grantaire’s pillow under his head.

There’s a part of him that isn’t sure Grantaire will actually finish the drawing. He has a shitty track record, to put it mildly, from dropping out of art school to not being able to put up a few posters in Building D because he got sidetracked by… dominoes? Enjolras isn’t even sure what happened exactly, but it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that Grantaire promised him he will do it, grinned at him and told him he’s silly for worrying, and then didn’t do it.

Honestly, he wouldn’t be as mad if Grantaire didn’t do the drawing. Artists always have their issues with their art, and Grantaire has issues with everything else, too. 

But the drawing is done next morning, put onto the bedside table.

And it’s so gorgeous Enjolras feels like the air is punched out of him in the best way possible.

His first thought is that Grantaire’s portrait drawing technique is incredibly good. It could be part of a portrait drawing tutorial in a university art course book or something (well, the ones that include people of color).

It’s not only a very good portrait, but a photograph couldn’t be more accurate. It’s obvious that Grantaire knows Enjolras’ face perfectly; knows the shape of his eyebrows and the corners of his lips and how his hair is parted exactly in the middle. He found the exact shades of dark brown for his skin, hair and eyes, and he got the texture of dreadlocks right. He even drew the tiny little geometrical forms on the bridge of the golden frames of Enjolras’ glasses.

The expression works too. There’s the tiniest bit of a smile, and eyes that are unguarded and sweetly joyous. It’s not Enjolras’ most often worn face. He knows, because sometimes Cosette has those days when she has to take a dozen of photos of everyone and their clothes and the flowers on the windowsill of the Musain. He’s more often than not either really focused and serious or looking completely done, and even when there’s an accidentally caught moment of him laughing with Bossuet and Joly and Bahorel or admiring Feuilly’s handicraft, even then he never looks so… relaxed and cozy and… at home.

But he does believe Grantaire. He believes that’s how he looked last night; it doesn’t look off. Even the violently red background fits too, somehow.

He finds Grantaire at the kitchen table, cradling his flask and looking like he hadn’t slept a wink last night.

He was probably up till dawn finishing the drawing and then decided to wait for Enjolras to wake up.

Which is just… really unnecessary. Enjolras wouldn’t have been mad if Grantaire woke him up.

“Hey.” Grantaire’s voice is rough and so exhausted Enjolras aches with sympathy. Damn it, Enjolras should have told him before going to sleep that he can wake him up when he’s done. He thought that goes without saying, but apparently not. “Um. You aren’t too disappointed, are you?”

Enjolras’ mouth actually drops open at that.

“Are you kidding? It’s fucking great. It’s really beautiful, you’re incredibly talented. No, Grantaire, I’m not disappointed, how could you think I would be disappointed?”

Grantaire, of course, evades the question, and quite unfairly:

“You’re really beautiful. I just drew that beauty, that's all I did.”

“You are still the one who drew it.”

Grantaire bites his lower lip, and then he grins, a bit crooked like he’s fighting against it.

“I’m glad you like it,” he mutters. It sounds like the words sound very foreign in his mouth, which makes Enjolras’ heart break a little.

“I love it, R.” He glances down at the paper, and yeah, there’s no way it’s just thanks to Enjolras; there’s no way anyone could have drawn this. Not even any artist.

Jehan said once that you can always feel in love songs and love poems whether someone really is in love or if they’re just putting words next to each other with an empty heart, and Enjolras didn’t say anything but he really doubted that’s how it works.

But…

“You really love me, don’t you?”

Enjolras looks up just in time to see a barely there blush on Grantaire’s cheeks.

“Is it that obvious? I’m turning into a Pontmercy, huh?” But he says in proudly, eyes clear and chin held high, like that’s the best fucking thing about him, that he really loves Enjolras. “But maybe I’ve been a Pontmercy for quite a while.”

Enjolras laughs and carefully puts the drawing down. Grantaire doesn’t look like he would be able to stay on two legs for very long, so Enjolras walks to him and Grantaire moves his chair back to give him enough space to straddle him, and then wraps slightly shaky arms around Enjolras’ shoulders. His lips taste like some kind of bitter alcohol, but Enjolras doesn’t comment. He opens his mouth, probably to apologize – he never drinks when he knows they’re going to make out –, but Enjolras shakes his head gently. The last thing he wants now is any kind of apology.

“Me too, you know.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, but then he understands it, and he looks uncertain and wary like he expects Enjolras to say he’s just kidding the next moment. But then he must see something in Enjolras’ eyes – god knows what – that makes his whole face brighten and it’s so glorious to behold.

Grantaire hugs him, resting his head on his chest, and fidgets a little before going still. Enjolras cradles his head with his hands, presses a kiss into his hair.

“Don’t fall asleep here, let’s wait with that until we get to the bedroom,” Enjolras whispers, and Grantaire makes a protesting moan and twists his fingers in Enjolras’ pajama shirt as he mumbles something that sounds quite a lot like ‘But I want to sleep in your arms forever’, and Enjolras smiles so much his cheeks hurt.


End file.
